Off Armageddon Reef

by David Weber

  "Erayk has a point, Zhasyn," Rayno said now. "Certainly everyone involved in this dispute has been arguing back and forth long enough to recognize how important it is to comply with any documentary requests we may have. If Breygart hasn't seen fit even to acknowledge the receipt of our request, that speaks poorly for him."

  "It may speak more poorly of the quality of his purported evidence," Myllyr pointed out. "If he truly has proof Mahntayl's claims are false, he ought to be eager to lay that evidence before us."

  Cahnyr shifted in his seat, and Rayno quirked one eyebrow at him.

  "Yes, Zhasyn?"

  "I only wanted to observe that from the very first, Sir Hauwerd Breygart—" the Archbishop of Glacierheart stressed the title and surname very slightly "—has maintained that Mahntayl's claim to descent from the fourteenth earl was false. And," he looked around the conference table, "he accompanied his initial arguments with depositions to that effect from over a dozen witnesses."

  "No one is disputing that he did, Zhasyn," Dynnys pointed out. "The point under consideration is Breygart's assertion that he's uncovered proof—not depositions, not hearsay evidence, but documented proof—that Tahdayo Mahntayl is not Fraidareck Breygart's great-grandson. It was that 'proof' we asked him to share with us."

  "Precisely," Rayno agreed, nodding solemnly, and Cahnyr clamped his lips firmly together. He glanced at Myllyr, and his lips thinned further as he read the other prelate's eyes.

  Dynnys could read the others' expressions just as well as Cahnyr could, and he couldn't quite completely suppress his own smile. Myllyr's support for his position was hardly a surprise; not only were they both Langhornites, but the two of them had been scratching one another's backs for decades, and both of them knew how Mother Church's politics worked. Rayno had been a bit more problematical, but Dynnys had confidently anticipated his support, as well. The Inquisition and Order of Schueler had been less than pleased by Charis' growing wealth and power for almost a century now. The kingdom's obvious taste for . . . innovation only made that worse, and the energy the Charisian "Royal College" had begun displaying over the last ten or fifteen years rubbed more than one senior Schuelerite on the raw.

  The view that religious orthodoxy waned in direct proportion to the distance between any given congregation and Zion was an inescapable part of most Schuelerites' mental baggage. Rayno, despite his own sophistication and ecclesiastical rank, still regarded such distant lands as Charis with automatic suspicion. In Charis' case, the power of its trade-based wealth and apparent inventiveness, coupled with the "Royal College's" active support for that inventiveness and the Ahrmahk Dynasty's domestic policies, made him even more suspicious. And the fact that Haarahld of Charis, unlike the majority of Safehold's rulers, had stayed out of debt to the Temple's moneylenders was one more worry for those—like Rayno—who fretted over how to control him if the need should arise.

  The Schuelerites' dominant position in the Church hierarchy would have been enough to put Charis under a cloud in the Church's eyes all by itself. But the kingdom's steadily growing wealth, and the influence its vast merchant fleet gave it in lands far beyond its own borders, made a bad situation worse in many respects. While most of the more mundane suspicion and ire of the Council of Vicars focused on the Republic of Siddarmark simply because of the Republic's proximity to the Temple Lands, there were those—including the Grand Inquisitor himself—who felt that Charis' attitudes and example were even more dangerous in the long run.

  Dynnys' own view, buttressed by reports from Zherald Ahdymsyn and Father Paityr Wylsynn, the Order of Schueler's own intendant in Tellesberg, was that Rayno's suspicions of Charis' fidelity to Mother Church's doctrines were baseless. True, Charisians' willingness to find new and more efficient ways to do things required a certain degree of vigilance. And, equally true, the Charisian branch of the Church was rather more permissive on several issues than the Council of Vicars would truly have preferred. And, yes, it was even true that this "college" of Haarahld's was actively seeking new ways to combine existing knowledge, which could only enhance that national fetish for "efficiency." That, however, was exactly why Father Paityr was there, and his reports—like those of his immediate predecessors—made it quite clear that nothing going on in Charis came remotely close to a violation of the Proscriptions of Jwo-jeng.

  As for domestic policies and dangerous examples, Dynnys was willing to grant that King Haarahld's great-grandfather's decision to legally abolish serfdom throughout his kingdom could be construed as a slap in Mother Church's face, if one were determined to view it that way. Dynnys wasn't, especially given the fact that there'd never been more than a relative handful of serfs in Charis even before the institution was officially abolished. Nor did he believe the claims—mostly from the Charisians' competitors—that his parishioners' focus on trade and the acquisition of wealth was so obsessive that it inspired them to ignore their obligations to God and Mother Church and skimp on the kingdom's tithe. Bishop Executor Zherald and his tithe-collectors would certainly have made their own displeasure known if they'd suspected there was any truth to those tales! Ahdymsyn might not be the most brilliant man ever to attain a bishop's ring, but he was no fool, either, and Mother Church had centuries of experience with every way kings or nobles might try to hide income from the tithe-assessors.

  And the Church's—and Inquisition's—grip on the mainland populations was surely firm enough to suppress any dangerous notions which might creep across the seas aboard Charisian merchantmen.

  No, Dynnys had no fear Charis was some sort of hotbed of potential heresy. Not that he hadn't been prepared to play upon Rayno's suspicions and the Council of Vicars' basic distrust and dislike for the kingdom.

  Which, he reflected, made the fact that Haarahld was clearly one of Breygart's strongest supporters the kiss of death as far as Wyllym was concerned.

  He supposed it was actually a sign of Rayno's moral integrity that it had taken him this long to come openly out in support of Tahdayo Mahntayl's claim.

  His fraudulent but extremely well-paying claim, Dynnys reflected silently, allowing no trace of his inner satisfaction to show. And the fact that Lyam Tyrn, the Archbishop of Emerald, was going to owe him a substantial favor for supporting Prince Nahrmahn's candidate wasn't going to hurt, either.

  "I think," Rayno, as the senior member of the court, continued, "that in light of Breygart's failure to provide his supposed proof, or even to respond to our request in a timely fashion, we must make our decision based upon the evidence already presented. Rather than rush to a conclusion, however, I would suggest we adjourn for lunch and afterwards spend an hour or so meditating upon this matter in privacy. Let us reconvene at about the fifteenth hour and render our decision, Brothers."

  The others nodded in agreement—Cahnyr a bit grudgingly—and chairs scraped as the archbishops rose. Cahnyr nodded to Rayno and Myllyr, managed to ignore Dynnys completely, and strode briskly from the conference room. Rayno smiled slightly, like an indulgent parent with two sons who were continually at odds, then followed Cahnyr.

  "Will you share lunch with me, Erayk?" Myllyr asked after the others had left. "I have a small matter which will be coming before the Office of Affirmation next five-day that I'd like to discuss with you."

  "Of course, Urvyn," Dynnys replied brightly. "I'd be delighted to."

  And it was true, he reflected. He actually looked forward to the inevitable dragon trading with Myllyr. It was part of the game, after all. The sizable "gift" about to land in his private purse, and the opportunity to remind Haarahld Ahrmahk where the true authority in Charis lay, would have been enough to place him firmly on Mahntayl's side, but even more seductive than mere wealth was the exercise of power. Not simply within his own archbishopric, but within the only hierarchy which truly mattered, right here in the Temple.

  "I understand the kitchens have something special waiting for us this afternoon," he continued. "Shall we partake of it in the main dining hall, or would you prefer to
dine on the plaza?"

  II

  Royal Palace,

  Tellesberg, Kingdom of Charis

  "Father, you know as well as I do who's really behind it!" Crown Prince Cayleb folded his arms across his chest and glared at his father. King Haarahld, however, endured his elder son's expression with remarkable equanimity.

  "Yes, Cayleb," the King of Charis said after a moment. "As it happens, I do know who's really behind it. Now, just what do you suggest I do about it?"

  Cayleb opened his mouth, then paused. After a moment, he closed it again. His dark eyes were, if anything, even more fiery than they had been, but his father nodded.

  "Exactly," he said grimly. "There's nothing I'd like better than to see Tahdayo's head on a pike over my gate. I'm sure he and his . . . associates feel the same about mine, of course. Unfortunately, however much I'd like to see his there, there's not much prospect of my collecting it any time soon. And since I can't—"

  He shrugged, and Cayleb scowled. Not in disagreement, but in frustration.

  "I know you're right, Father," he said finally. "But we're going to have to find some answer. If it were only Tahdayo, or even just him and Nahrmahn, we could deal with it easily enough. But with Hektor behind the two of them, and with Erayk and Zherald sitting in their purses . . ."

  His voice trailed off, and Haarahld nodded again. He knew, whether his son chose to admit it or not, that at least half of Cayleb's frustration sprang from fear. King Haarahld wasn't about to hold that against his heir, however. In fact, fear could be a good thing in a monarch, or a future monarch, as long as it was not allowed to rule him. And as long as it sprang from the right causes. Cowardice was beneath contempt; fear of the consequences for those one ruled was a monarch's duty.

  "If I had the answer you want, Cayleb," he said, "I wouldn't be a king; I'd be one of the archangels come back to earth."

  He touched his heart and then his lips with the fingers of his right hand, and Cayleb mirrored the gesture.

  "Since, however, I'm merely mortal," Haarahld continued, "I'm still trying to come up with something remotely like an answer."

  The king climbed out of his chair and crossed to the window. Like most Charisians, Haarahld was a little above average height for Safehold in general, with broader shoulders and a generally stockier build. His son was perhaps an inch or two taller than he, and Cayleb's frame was still in the process of filling out. He was going to be a muscular, powerful man, Haarahld thought, and he moved with a quick, impatient grace.

  I used to move like that, Haarahld reflected. Back before that kraken tried to take my leg off. Was that really twenty years ago?

  He stopped by the window, dragging his stiff-kneed right leg under him and propping his right shoulder unobtrusively against the window frame. His son stood beside him, and they gazed out across the broad, sparkling blue waters of South Howell Bay.

  The bay was dotted with sails out beyond the city's fortifications and the wharves. There were at least sixty ships tied up at the docks or awaiting wharf space. Most were the relatively small one- and two-masted coasters and freight haulers which carried the kingdom's internal trade throughout the enormous bay, but over a third were the bigger, heavier (and clumsier-looking) galleons which served Safehold's oceanic trade. Most of the galleons had three masts, and they loomed over their smaller, humbler sisters, flying the house flags of at least a dozen trading houses, while far beyond the breakwaters, three sleek galleys of the Royal Charisian Navy strode northward on the long spider legs of their sweeps.

  "That's the reason we're not going to find many friends," Haarahld told his son, jutting his bearded chin at the merchant ships thronging the Tellesberg waterfront. "Too many want what we have, and they're foolish enough to think that if they league together to take it away from us, their 'friends' will actually let them keep it afterward. And at the moment, there's no one who feels any particular need to help us keep it."

  "Then we have to convince someone to feel differently," Cayleb said.

  "True words, my son." Haarahld smiled sardonically. "And now, for your next conjuration, who do you propose to convince?"

  "Sharleyan is already half on our side," Cayleb pointed out.

  "But only half," Haarahld countered. "She made that clear enough this past spring."

  Cayleb grimaced, but he couldn't really disagree. Queen Sharleyan of Chisholm had as many reasons to oppose the League of Corisande as Charis did, and her hatred for Prince Hektor of Corisande was proverbial. There'd been some hope that those factors might bring her into open alliance with Charis, and Haarahld had dispatched his cousin Kahlvyn, the Duke of Tirian, to Chisholm as his personal envoy to explore the possibility.

  Without success.

  "You know how convincing Kahlvyn can be, and his position in the succession should have given any suggestion from him far greater weight than one from any other ambassador," the king continued. "If anyone could have convinced her to ally with us, it would have been him, but even if she'd been certain she wanted to support us fully, she'd still have had her own throne to consider. Corisande is as close to her as to us, and she has that history of bad blood between her and Hektor to think about. Not to mention the fact that the Temple isn't exactly one of our greater supporters just now."

  Cayleb nodded glumly. However much Sharleyan might despise Hektor, she had just as many reasons to avoid open hostilities with him. And, as his father had just implied, she had even more reasons for not antagonizing the men who ruled the Temple . . . and few compelling reasons to come to the aid of what was, after all, her kingdom's most successful competitor.

  "What about Siddarmark?" the crown prince asked after several seconds. "We do have those treaties."

  "The Republic is probably about the most favorably inclined of the major realms," Haarahld agreed. "I'm not sure the Lord Protector would be especially eager to get involved in our little . . . unpleasantness, but Stohnar recognizes how valuable our friendship's been over the years. Unfortunately, he has even more reason than Sharleyan to be wary of irritating the Church's sensibilities, and those treaties of ours are all trade treaties, not military ones. Even if they weren't, what would Siddarmark use for a fleet?"

  "I know." Cayleb pounded lightly on the window frame, chewing his lower lip.

  "It's not as if this really comes as a surprise," his father pointed out. "Tahdayo's been pressing his so-called claim for years now. Admittedly, he was mostly trying to make himself enough of a nuisance for me to buy him off and be done with him, but is it really a surprise that he's suddenly started taking himself seriously now that he's finally found someone to back him?"

  "It ought to be," Cayleb growled. "Tahdayo has no legitimate claim to Hanth! Even if that ridiculous lie about his grandmother's being Earl Fraidareck's bastard daughter had an ounce of truth in it, Hauwerd would still be the rightful heir!"

  "Except that Mother Church is going to say differently." Haarahld's tone was light, almost whimsical, but there was nothing amused or lighthearted in his expression.

  "Why shouldn't she when Nahrmahn and Hektor are so willing and eager to pour gold into Dynnys' purse?" Cayleb snarled. "Besides, the Council's always—!"

  He broke off abruptly as his father laid a hand on his shoulder.

  "Carefully, Cayleb," Haarahld said, his voice soft. "Carefully. What you say to me is one thing, but you are my heir. What you say where other ears can hear and use it against you—against us—is something else entirely."

  "I know that, Father." Cayleb swung away from the window and looked into his father's eyes. "But you know, and I do, that it's exactly what's happened. And you know why the Council of Vicars is allowing it to stand, too."

  "Yes," Haarahld admitted, and there was as much sorrow as anger in his eyes now. "If all Mother Church's priests were like Maikel, or even Father Paityr, it would never have happened. Or, at least, I wouldn't be worried that my son would be executed for heresy simply because he spoke the truth in the wrong ear. But the
y aren't, and I am. So guard your tongue, my son!"

  "I will," Cayleb promised, then turned to look back out across the busy bay once more. "But you also know this is only the beginning, Father. Forcing you to accept Tahdayo as Earl of Hanth is only the first step."

  "Of course it is." Haarahld snorted. "This is Hektor's doing. He's a sand maggot, not a slash lizard. Nahrmahn's too impatient to take any longer view than he absolutely must, but Hektor's always preferred to let someone else take the risk of making the kill. He's content to get fat on the leavings until, one day, the slash lizard looks over its shoulder and discovers it's strayed into the surf and the maggot's grown into a kraken."